


Nothin' Fucks With My Baby

by WildnessBecomesYou



Series: Music is Not the Food of Love, but the Messenger [22]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Year Slow Burn, Angst, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Essential Tremors, Fluff, Getting Together, Heathenry, Idiots in Love, M/M, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Smut, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), World War I, im sure all will be included, jesus is a libra, non-explicit smut tho, questioning faith, ratings/warnings/characters will get updated as this fic gets updated, there's a kink i can't quite place, vague smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-07-10
Packaged: 2020-05-31 07:59:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 14,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19421788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WildnessBecomesYou/pseuds/WildnessBecomesYou
Summary: Nothing fucks with my babyNothing can get a look in on my babyNothing fucks with my babyNothing, nothing, nothing, nothingA look back on the deeds, misdeeds, and journey of our Ineffable Husbands, set to the mystical sounds of Hozier.Or something like that





	1. I Crowley 1:3

**Author's Note:**

> so lemme lay this down for ya-- 
> 
> This is gonna be 14 chapters, one for each verse of text in the song. They'll probably all be about the same length as this one here; the first seven will be from Crowley's perspective, the second seven from Aziraphale's. Mirrors of each other and all that. 
> 
> If you haven't listened to NFWMB by Hozier, I highly recommend you do. Leave yourself space for silence between listens, that shit hits hard. 
> 
> Enjoy, let me know how you feel! <3

# I Crowley 1:3

> _When I first saw you_  
>  _The end was soon_  
>  _To Bethlehem it slouched_  
>  _And then, it must've caught a good look at you_

Crowley fell for Aziraphale when the angel gave away his sword. He’d thought it was because the angel was soft, because the angel wanted the discarded humans to be safe. He’d thought Aziraphale simply disobeyed orders for the Good of it.

As it turned out, Aziraphale did not need his sword. 

Crowley first stood in awe of his angel, sword not necessary, in Bethlehem. 

It was the sixth day of October in the seventh year predating the world’s awareness of Christ. The holy child managed to go a whole seven years without the world at his beck and call— mostly thanks to the protective gaze of his mother and stepfather. 

But Crowley was getting ahead of himself. 

On the sixth day, God made man. On the seventh day, She rested. 

While She rested, Crowley slithered towards the stable housing the newborn Savior of Man. 

He hadn’t wanted to hurt the wee babe. Truly, he’d only wanted to get a look at him. He liked children, and with the way the world had been going recently, he’d become a little afraid the world was closer to ending than he’d thought. 

If the world was ending, he really hadn’t spent enough time with Aziraphale. 

So he wanted to see the tiny Prince of Heaven. If he did so in the guise of the snake, well…

All God’s Creatures. 

There was a soft glow coming from the stable. Honestly, it was a bit ridiculous that no one had housed Mary yet. Joseph, fine, let him sleep in the stable, but the woman had just given birth! She’d been God’s surrogate, and the angels hadn’t seen fit to arrange a comfy place for her to give birth? 

Seemed an oversight, if you ask him. 

But he wandered towards the glow anyways, finding Aziraphale quietly reading a scroll as both mother and baby slept. 

Joseph, for the record, looked mildly perturbed. When he caught sight of Crowley, though, he was very perturbed. 

“That’s a snake,” the shepherd said, standing. 

Aziraphale didn’t look up. “All God’s Creatures, Joseph, are welcome to see the Newborn King.” 

He sounded almost bored. Crowley decided to make it more interesting, shifting into a human shape.

After all, Joseph needed to get used to seeing weird things. 

To his credit, the actual man did not balk. He blinked in surprise, let out an “uh,” but he did not scream. 

Aziraphale did look up now, a spark of recognition and a fond smile spreading across his face at Crowley’s appearance. “Ah, my dear boy,” he said happily, stood. 

“Can you even be sure he _is_ a boy?” Crowley smiled. They did not touch, but they acknowledged the other’s presence. 

Aziraphale strode towards mother and child. “He was made to become a man,” Aziraphale reminded Crowley gently. 

“I’m aware.” And then he gasped at the sight of the baby. 

He was practically angelic, this little Lord. He did not glow— it was the angel’s glow that kept this late-fall stable warm— but he radiated Goodness and Grace. Crowley wanted to touch.

Crowley was convinced it would burn.

“He’ll see so little of this world,” Aziraphale said softly, almost sadly, his hand resting on Mary’s shoulder. “And yet, I think it will be too much for him.” 

Crowley sighed. Mary began to stir, the presence of two holy beings and her husband not enough to deter the protective maternal instinct. Crowley backed away and felt the familiar pangs of Hell calling. 

“I’ve got to go.”

“No you don’t,” Aziraphale said. Crowley looked to him in surprise. “You should stay. See them through the night with me.” The angel smiled. “We can watch them walk off to new adventures, just like Adam and Eve.”

Crowley could not respond. He didn’t know how. But he sat on the ground, bony knees pressing through straw, and stared. 

They sat in silence for a few moments. Joseph watched them, eyes flitting back and forth as if he expected a match of wits to begin. 

“You know this signifies the Beginning of the End,” he said finally. 

Aziraphale had returned to reading, and now looked up at the demon over his scroll. “It definitely has not been six thousand years, my dear.” 

Joseph’s eyes flitted back to Crowley. 

“No, but you know my side will want to destroy him.”

Joseph’s eyes widened. He might have been the Lamb’s stepfather, but he cared deeply for the boy. His eyes moved to Aziraphale. 

“He’s the _Christ_ , not the _Anti_ -Christ.” 

Back to Crowley. 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Still. Even now, I can feel it. Countdown’s on.”

Back to Aziraphale. 

“Well, they’ll have to get through me, then.”

Joseph’s eyes stayed on Aziraphale. Crowley squinted at him. 

The angel shrugged. “I have been tasked with guarding the Eastern Gate. I did what I thought was best— now I am tasked with guarding the Son of God, for a night, and I shall do what I think is best.” He flicked his wrist and his scroll straightened out. “And I rather like this world.”

Crowley smiled, his head falling forward so his hair could hide it. He shook his head. “You are _ridiculous_ , angel.” 

“I think I’m rather practical.” 

“Joseph?” 

All three male(ish) entities in the room looked up. Mary was calling softly from her bed of hay. The shepherd went to her side immediately, laid his fingers over the crown of the fussing baby’s head. 

“Something’s wrong,” she said, eyes full of fear. 

She wasn’t mistaken. Crowley felt it too.

He moved to the side of the barn where he’d come in. He hissed lowly, cursing it all. 

“Angel, you’ve got to get them out of here. My side isn’t _happy_ with the current turn of events.” 

Aziraphale frowned and put his scroll back down. “We will not be running.” 

“You— you’ve got to,” Crowley sputtered. “You don’t even have a sword—“ 

Aziraphale had been a soldier once. It was not all that long ago. 

Crowley knew this when the angel revealed his true form. 

In truth, it was terrifying. Bigger than a human brain could fathom; six wings, each pair set a little catawampus; the “eyes” most humans had were now glowing spheres of pupil-less light. Each wing had hundreds of eyes themselves, circling and searching and identifying. His arms were knobby, varied in length, multitudinous in a way that made any casual observer feel sick. 

He had been a soldier once, not all that long ago, and Hell remembered. 

Hell turned tail and ran. 

Aziraphale returned to his more corporeal form, cleared his throat, and sat back down. “Well!” 

Crowley let his jaw hang open. Joseph covered Mary and Jesus with his body, still afraid of the blinding light that had softened to a mere glow. 

“You’re going to catch a donkey’s tail, dear,” Aziraphale said with one eyebrow raised, “and they don’t particularly taste good.” 

_All the powers of Hell,_ Crowley thought, _could not touch this being._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the title of the chapter: I'm following Bible citation style. First book of Crowley, 1st chapter (1st verse of the song), 3rd Verse (third meeting, with the Garden and the Flood being the first two).
> 
> On Jesus's birthday: Jesus is a Libra, in my mind. He was sent to Earth to balance the scales for humans, bring them back to God's Grace. (I didn't grow up religious, so if I'm wrong I'm sorry.) Typically, it's accepted that Jesus was born between 6 and 4 AD, but I'm making him a little older on account of the Star of Bethlehem phenomenon. This refers to a bright light in the sky caused by Venus and Jupiter coming close enough to appear as one luminous being, which either happened in June of 2 BC or October of 7 BC (thanks Dave Reneke).
> 
> Also, trans Jesus. Just sayin.


	2. I Crowley 2: 4, 5054, 6010

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Moments of Charity; Aziraphale belongs to Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Saint Paul writes of Charity in Corinthians; Charity is the purest expression of Love. 
> 
> Aziraphale is a being of Love, my dudes

#  I Crowley 2: 4, 5054, 6010 

> _Give your heart and soul to charity_  
>  _'Cause the rest of you_  
>  _The best of you_  
>  _Honey, belongs to me_  
> 

Aziraphale was well known, among certain circles, as the Man Who Would Give Anything.

This was true throughout the centuries. It had been true in the Before Times, and in the Years of Our Lord, it remained true. It remained true through the time of the Apostles, it remained true in the times of Kings and Lords, it remained true as those silly rebels shucked off the Mother Country. 

It remained true, always, and even as Aziraphale rushed you out of his shop, it was a truth that he would provide you tea for the road if the road was cold. 

Crowley loved that his angel lived. The celestial being probably inspired Paul— bringing prophecies to nothing, shushing cruel tongues, the foundation on which to build faith and hope; these were all Aziraphale.

They were all Love.

Aziraphale, Crowley knew, was Love. 

Crowley could not stop Aziraphale from Loving. He could not guard the angel from feeling the Love of a place or a person.

This meant he could do little to protect the angel, in some ways. 

In the tens (nineteen-tens), he wanted to curse the angel. He wanted to take the angel down, because Aziraphale was practically ruining himself, trying to protect the innocents caught in the crossfire. 

He wanted to scream at Aziraphale for housing children in his miraculously safe bookshop. He wanted to wrap the angel up in his blackened and charred wings, shield him from the bombs and the gas and the blimps falling out of the sky. 

He could miracle Aziraphale’s broken body most of the way back together (save the now-ever-shaking hands), but he couldn’t miracle his heart back together. 

After the apocalypse, the angel gave the demon his heart. He handed it over, smiling, his fingers skating over the disassembled pieces, and gently asked Crowley if he could hold it. 

Crowley held it close to his chest. This belonged to him. 

Quiet moments belonged to Crowley. Shy touches of hands that evolved into touches of lips that evolved into declarations of Love and Lust belonged to Crowley. Loud huffs of frustration at people daring to be customers belonged to Crowley. 

_All_ of Aziraphale belonged to Crowley. 

It verged on totality. Crowley found it terrifying. He also found it thrilling. 

All of him belonged to Aziraphale anyways, and he would freely admit this. 

“Crowley?” came the soft call. He looked up, found Aziraphale accompanied by a young woman with tears in her eyes. “Would you mind sitting with this young lady while I make us all some tea?” 

Crowley shifted just enough to leave room for both the young woman and Aziraphale (though he knew he would drape himself over Aziraphale, for the most part). 

_Charity,_ the daft being. 

“Sure, honey,” Crowley drawled. 

The young woman stood stock still in the center of the room. Crowley pushed up his glasses. “Can you see me?” she asked. 

Crowley shrugged. She didn’t want to be seen. “Shapes.”

She sat down heavily next to him, choked on her breath, and then let full sobs come to the surface. Crowley held out his hand and she took it. 

When Aziraphale re-entered the room, Crowley caught the look of fondness on his face. Perhaps fondness wasn’t the right word— it was too much to just be fond, too much to describe. Ineffable, perhaps. 

Yes. Ineffable. 

Ineffability belonged to Crowley.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How we doin' ? Doin' okay?


	3. I Crowley 3: 6, 6011

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dead did not roll to greet the coming of the Messiah, but the aversion of the apocalypse. Aziraphale and Crowley only realize this when it happens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know when Jesus decided he needed to be a present character in this but here we are ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

#  I Crowley 3: 6, 6011

> _Ain't it a gentle sound, the rolling in the graves?_  
>  _Ain't it like thunder under earth, the sound it makes?_  
>  _Ain't it exciting you, the rumble where you lay?_  
>  _Ain't you my baby, ain't you my baby?_

Crowley would never fail to be amused at the ways that humans managed to get things just left of correct.

No one rolled in their graves when Jesus walked the earth. Crowley walked backwards for the first time, but the dead stayed dead. 

Except Jesus and Lazarus, of course. 

“I cannot feel the waves of change,” Jesus said somewhere in the middle of land that would eventually become Paris. He turned to the demon, no hatred on his face. “Can you?”

Crowley grunted. “N’really. I figured you’d be accompanied by thunder. Your Mother’s wrath, and all that.” 

Jesus laughed, gently wrapped an arm around the demon. “Isn’t it funny,” he mused, “how they think She’s a man? Ooh, watch the Lamb of God and his Father!” 

Crowley cracked a smile. “You’re off your rocker, J. C.” 

The Lamb turned his head, smiling brightly. He reminded Crowley so much of another angelic being, it almost hurt. 

“You’re so capable of Love,” Jesus laughed. “That anyone denies it, _he_ is the fool!” 

Crowley grunted. 

They walked silently a few paces. 

“You know, there’s this place way out East— Aziraphale showed it to me, they do really interesting things with fish.” 

Jesus clapped his hands together, somewhat squishing Crowley in his grasp. “Wonderful! Invite the angel!” He grinned, coming around in front of Crowley to stare into the demon’s slitted eyes without judgement. “It’ll be like having my godfathers out to lunch.” 

“We’ll be godfathers,” Crowley said, teasing Aziraphale.

Aziraphale remembered, Crowley knew— the twinkle in his eye meant he was thinking of the same moment the demon recalled. “Godfathers,” he breathed wistfully. 

The rolling began after the apocalypse didn’t happen. It began after the angel handed his heart to a the demon. The rolling began as Peace settled over the Earth, as humanity became aware of the mess they’d left themselves. 

When the rolling began, Aziraphale gasped. 

Crowley’s head jerked up, look full of concern at the sudden noise. The angel reached for his hand. 

“Did you feel that?”

Crowley waited. Crowley felt.

Crowley let the silence pass between them like a bottle of wine, savored, cradled, waiting for permission. 

And then Aziraphale smiled. 

They were the only two beings on the face of the planet who could feel it, who could hear it. The original people, rolling in their graves— but not in disapproval, not now. Now they called to their descendants and inheritors in approval, trying to sit up in some form of “hi, hello, thank you for doing a decent job since we’ve been gone.” 

Oh, it was a gentle thing, a tenuous thing. 

Crowley never minded the dead, but he knew the living would be perturbed if they knew. 

Aziraphale smiled, leaning his whole self back into the couch they sat on. Crowley laid his head down over the angel’s thighs, fingers automatically coming up to card through his hair. He closed his eyes. 

They spent another few moments in silence. “Who would have known the second coming was all about Humanity?” Aziraphale asked, his voice soft, jagged around the edges. 

“Sounds about right,” Crowley ground out. 

“ 'attah seter li mitzar titzereni rannei fallet; tesoveveni selah.”

“I could do without the exalting.” 

Aziraphale laughed, and it mingled with the distant sound of thunder. Crowley did not fear the sound any longer, simply choosing to leave his head where it was and take one of Aziraphale’s hands in his. 

The rumble continued, even through Aziraphale tiring of the couch and carrying the demon to bed. It continued, and Crowley supplied his own shaking as Aziraphale’s hands skirted over his body. The gentle shaking of the earth left Crowley clinging to his angel long after their bodies had both stilled. 

“Mine,” he murmured, half a question. _Aren’t you?_

Aziraphale tucked his face into Crowley’s neck, a contented smile pressed to his skin as the angel breathed him in.

“Mine,” again, _Aren’t you?_

“Yours,” Aziraphale agreed, pressing ever closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _“ 'attah seter li mitzar titzereni rannei fallet; tesoveveni selah.”_ : transliterated Hebrew for Psalm 32:7, which reads "You are my hiding place; you preserve me from trouble; You surround me with songs of deliverance. Selah."
> 
> Idk when my eclectic and heretical(heathenly?) knowledge of the bible took over but here we are
> 
> Also Crowley definitely calls Jesus "J. C." fite me


	4. I Crowley 4: 6009

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley discuss how to avoid, you know, being killed by their former sides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did u kno Principalities are sometimes called Rulers, and are described/depicted occasionally as having a crown and scepter? 
> 
> Can you imagine True Form Aziraphale with a tilted, half-singed crown and a gloriously sparkling scepter?

#  I Crowley 4: 6009 

> _Nothing fucks with my baby_  
>  _Nothing can get a look in on my baby_  
>  _Nothing fucks with my baby_  
>  _Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing_

God above, Satan below, Anyone Who Would Listen, Crowley was glad to see Aziraphale alive.

He would also _really_ like some sleep. 

“Aziraphale,” he breathed, and the angel stopped pacing for a moment. “Can we… can we do this tomorrow morning?” 

Aziraphale furrowed his brow. “My dear boy, they will be at our throats tomorrow.” 

Crowley tipped his head back. He was too tired. Just a little nap, five minutes or so while Aziraphale kept pacing— 

His head was pushed up. The sudden hand at the back of his head would have startled him, but the hand was soft and nearly glowing. He opened his eyes. 

“Crowley, we’re figuring this out. _Then_ we can sleep.” 

The angel’s voice was deeper than it had a right to be. Crowley felt something in him stir, that age old desire to claim and be claimed. 

“We?” he asked weakly. 

Aziraphale’s hand slipped from behind his head. It was some sort of miracle that his head remained upright. 

The angel shot him a look. “Read me the prophecy again.”

“Angel, please, I am _so_ tired—“ 

Aziraphale flared in front of his eyes. His true form, the six-winged, many armed being, started to take shape. Something formed in his third hand on the right side. 

Crowley was suddenly _very_ alert. He scrambled towards the back of the couch. 

Aziraphale returned to his corporeal form immediately. 

It was a scepter in his hand. Crowley relaxed a tiny bit. 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured. His eyes still glowed. “Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you—“ 

He cut himself off, the scepter clattering to the floor as he reached for Crowley. 

Crowley grabbed at the angel’s hand, pulling it to his face. He let it brush against his cheek before burying his nose in the angel’s skin, and then Aziraphale was pulling him in fully, curling over him like a protective shell. 

“I— I thought—“ 

Aziraphale shushed him, fluffing his fingers through the hair at the nape of Crowley’s neck. “I know, my darling, I know, but I’m here, I promise.” 

Crowley couldn’t help the sob he let out. The touch was uncovering the locked-away places of his heart, the banished emotions he’d been keeping silent. Aziraphale’s chin was perched on the crown of his head; his nose was buried in the familiar smells of cocoa and petrichor that lingered in Aziraphale’s waistcoat. No ash. No salted brimstone. 

“My sweet demon, you must be _exhausted_. Fighting off Dukes of Hell,” he started softly, massaging at the back of Crowley’s neck, “thinking you’d lost me to that fire, losing your Bentley, stopping the apocalypse and then having to suffer the presence of _Satan_ —“ he hissed at the mention of his otherworldly boss. “Oh, I know, my darling, and yet you stopped time for me, you precious thing.” 

Crowley whimpered and tightened his arms around Aziraphale’s middle. The angel tugged him back by the scruff, gentle but firm. 

“Look at me, dear.”

Crowley did. He let Aziraphale see his tears. The angel brushed them away. 

“How are you not—“ Crowley cut himself off. 

Aziraphale heard the _broken_ anyways. 

He sighed. “Because, my dear, you’ve put in your work for me. And now I must put in my work for you.”

Crowley stammered without saying anything. 

“Darling, I love you,” Aziraphale interrupted. 

Crowley was dumbfounded. Aziraphale smiled. “I love you,” he said again, “and that is why we are going to get through tomorrow. And we will return to each other.” He pressed a kiss to the corner of Crowley’s left eye, left his cheek there for a moment longer than necessary. “And I will be able to properly tell you this, when you aren’t so tired you’re about to drop.” 

Crowley swallowed. There was no pressure in Aziraphale’s words, no asking for requital. Really, there was no room for an answer. 

“Okay,” Crowley said. 

Aziraphale let him go and stepped away, and Crowley mourned the loss of contact. But this time he watched the angel pacing. 

“The prophecy?” 

“When all is fated and all is done,” Crowley muttered, “ye must choose your faces wisely, for soon enough ye will be playing with fire.” 

“We’ve already _played_ with fire,” Aziraphale muttered. “It’s only a punishment for me— maybe that’s why I caught it—“ 

“No, angel,” Crowley said, swallowing thickly, “I don’t think she means fire, literal fire. Well, for you, maybe, but I bet I’ll get just what I gave.”

Aziraphale’s eyes began to glow again. “That won’t do.”

“Can’t help what’s going on in someone else’s head.” 

Aziraphale had more wings than he should, now. “Angel, careful.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. “I won’t stand for it.” 

Blast it all, he was a force of nature. 

Crowley could not answer. He had nothing to say— choosing faces? What did that even mean?

Thunder rumbled. Crowley shivered. 

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you,” Aziraphale rumbled. Crowley looked up. “And when you pass through the rivers, they will not sweep over you. When you walk through the fire, you will not be burned; the flames will not set you ablaze.” 

Crowley sighed. “Wooing me with Bible verses seems like an odd choice.”

“Crowley!” He looked up at the angel, now in his true form, bending to pick up his scepter. “That’s it!” 

Crowley furrowed his brow. “Uh…what?”

“Not wooing, but— we have to protect each other!” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Duh.”

“We can do that!” He crossed the room and reached for Crowley’s face. He closed his eyes and waited for pain, but felt none— only warmth. “When you pass through the waters, _I_ will be with _you_.” 

“Might be the exhaustion, but I’m not following.”

Aziraphale smiled, took the crown off his head, and placed it atop Crowley’s. “I’ll go in your place, wearing your face. I’ll be you— we’ll switch bodies.” 

“Angel, you’re… you’re so fucking clever.” 

They lay in Crowley’s bed together, later, and Crowley held Aziraphale’s hand to his chest, hoping the angel found his rapidly-beating heart soothing. 

They were both exhausted now. Angelic form tended to take it out of Aziraphale. Crowley was still utterly worn out. 

As he watched the angel fall asleep, he thought of how steadfast he’d been. There had been no option of fear. Nothing was going to mess with Crowley, not if Aziraphale had anything to say about it. 

Largely because nothing would dare fuck with Aziraphale. 

Crowley smiled. He’d chosen a terribly bad angel, he thought as he closed his eyes, drifting into a peaceful sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Verse taken from Isaiah 43:2, the New International Version, because I really didn't feel like having Aziraphale modernize King James


	5. I Crowley 5: 178

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is conflicted about converting the Celts, and Crowley tries to make him feel better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's mildly graphic violence here, please proceed with caution.

#  I Crowley 5: 178 

> _If I was born as a blackthorn tree_  
>  _I'd wanna be felled by you_  
>  _Held by you_  
>  _Fuel the pyre of your enemies_

Crowley was there when God faced off against the other gods that held the Celtics in their grasps. He was there when the Christians tried to kill the old religions. 

If Crowley protected a few of those old witches, well…

He was a demon, after all. 

He was there when the angel arrived, too. 

Crowley was glad to see him. It had been too long, far too long, and though he was loathe to admit it, he missed Aziraphale’s presence.

Aziraphale had seemed extremely tired. He’d nearly rejected Crowley’s invitation to a feast— “I am, after all, supposed to be… saving these poor people. I’m not sure it would be the best idea.”

“So you get to know them,” Crowley shrugged, “and it makes “saving” their souls easier.” 

Aziraphale sighed and agreed. They entered the feast together, found seats at the table where they could be pressed shoulder to shoulder. 

They’d learned long ago that physical contact did not burn. It warmed, but did not burn. 

They dined at the feast silently. The angel did not sit up straight, but leaned— half on Crowley to his left, and half forward, as if the top of his head was being pulled to the ground. He was exhausted. 

After the feast, Crowley offered his own abode to Aziraphale. He was surprised when the angel immediately agreed. They spent several moments in silence, plodding slowly back towards the place Crowley slept currently. 

Finally, he’d had enough. “What’s going on, angel?” 

Aziraphale glanced up. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.” 

They continued in silence. When the angel began to settle down for some apparently-much-needed rest, Crowley huffed out an, “It’s fine if you don’t want to tell me, you know that, but there’s something up and I’m not really inclined to let it go.” 

Aziraphale folded his hands over his chest and stared in the direction of the sky. “I miss the sky.” 

Crowley furrowed his brow. “We can…sleep outside?”

“I think I’d like that,” Aziraphale murmured, rising. 

So the two of them moved outside. Crowley laid down next to the angel and wafted a fur over them.

After a few moments of silence, Aziraphale spoke again. It was quiet. 

“I am very tired.”

“You seem it,” Crowley answered, turning his head to look at the angel. Aziraphale continued staring at the sky. 

Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hand under the fur. Crowley let him interlock their fingers before he turned on his side, placing the fingers of his free hand against Aziraphale’s forearm in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. They continued to lie in silence until Aziraphale spoke again. 

“I don’t know that I believe we’re doing the right thing.” 

Crowley didn’t question it aloud. Instead, he squeezed the angel’s pinky with his own. 

“I know we’re supp— saving their souls. I know we’re guiding them to the light, helping them find Her, but… it just feels…” 

Crowley waited. 

“It feels _wrong_.” 

Wind whistled through the trees. They twisted above the two inhuman beings. Crowley stared. 

“That’s silly, isn’t it,” Aziraphale half laughed, though the smile didn’t reach his eyes, “me, an angel of Her Grace, thinking conversion is _wrong_.”

Crowley propped himself up on his elbow, keeping their pinkies together. “It’s not wrong, angel.”

Aziraphale looked at him, finally. There was no reassured confidence in his gaze, not like their first meeting in the garden— this time, his eyes were empty but for the tears threatening to spill. 

“ _You’re_ not wrong, angel.” 

Aziraphale closed his eyes, moved his head to face the stars again. Crowley continued. “You’re allowed to feel uncertain. Isn’t that what faith is all about? She certainly encouraged the Hebrews to question Her. You’re supposed to question Her, and then decide that She still knows best, even if you don’t understand it. That’s faith, right?” 

Aziraphale nodded. His eyes were still closed. Crowley wanted to smooth out the lines next to the angel’s eyes, to soothe his pain with kisses to closed lids.

But they were on opposite sides. 

“I’m not afraid of Falling,” Aziraphale murmured, the sound strained, “not if that’s part of Her Plan.” 

Crowley let his head drop, eyes closed. “Then you have plenty of faith. You’re not wrong.”

Aziraphale fully took Crowley’s hand. “Thank you, Crowley.”

“Always,” Crowley murmured, and he meant it. 

When they woke in the morning, long shadows stretched over them. Crowley opened his eyes to a twisted, towering tree to the East. 

He sat up slowly, letting his bones click back into place after a night on chilled ground. He caught sight of the angel next to him and felt a strange sort of shame well in his belly. 

Aziraphale was good. Aziraphale was bright and loving and peaceful, and yet just last night he had been doubting that. 

Aziraphale was the complete opposite of Crowley, and yet he was different from the other angels, and that made him all the more good. He was good, and Crowley was bad, and yet Crowley was convinced that every time they met he was infecting the angel’s Grace. 

“Crowley?” 

He looked down to the angel. Aziraphale was woozy, voice rough with sleep. “Crowley, I think the chieftains are returning.”

Crowley let go of Aziraphale’s hand— he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. He stood, and off in the distance he spotted a large plank of people. Some of them dragged other people by chains. 

The angel and the demon did not arrive in time to know the chained people’s crimes. But there was vengeance in the air, flooding every surface and every being in sight. Even the angel felt it, his fists clenching. 

Crowley touched the inside of his wrist. “It’d be pretty spectacular if you went all…true form on them.” He waggled his eyebrows. “I bet you’d get a lot of new devotees.” 

Aziraphale snorted, but his fingers loosened. “They’re not _for_ me.”

_They should be,_ Crowley thought. _I would. You should be worshipped. I could. I can. I will._

Someone grabbed Crowley’s arm. It took his mind a second to begin translating the Gaelic. 

“You! Strong man?” 

Crowley puffed his chest up. “You could say.” 

“Help us, then. We need wood.”

Crowley followed, leaving the angel behind, not daring to look at his uncertain face. 

The demon followed the directions of the man who’d gotten his attention, while listening to the local priestess. She told him of the powers of the tree who’s branches they took, the dry bark scraping at his infernal skin. She sang the praises of the fire that came from the dark tree— the blackthorn, that same twisted tree— from which they took a single, thick log. She cradled that blackthorn branch, smiling at Crowley, placing her hand on his arm, bidding him to touch. 

Crowley helped them build the pyre. The blackthorn log was the base, cut in two to give more of a base. The other logs seemed pale, almost glowing, in comparison to the blackthorn’s dark skin. 

It reminded him of another contrast. 

He returned to the angel after the pyre was built. He didn’t hear the proclamations and justifications for burning the prisoners; he stared at the angel instead. 

“To think,” the angel whispered, “that one would burn another just to rid the world of their enemies.” 

_I would,_ Crowley thought. _I will. Let me, I’ll protect you, I’ll avenge you, all for you—_

“Alright, dear boy?” Aziraphale asked, concern clear on his face and hand warm on Crowley’s arm.

“Perfectly.”

The fire burned bright. The screams burned their way into the watcher’s minds. 

The blackthorn tree remained dark, and Crowley felt a kinship to it.


	6. I Crowley 6: 7773

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You'd think this verse would be mad, but I saw lesbians smiling at each other so now it's a mushy wedding scene.

# I Crowley 6: 7773

> _Ain't it warming you, the world gone up in flames?_
> 
> _Ain't it the life you, your lighting of the blaze?_
> 
> _Ain't it a waste they'd watch the throwing of the shade?_
> 
> _Ain't you my baby, ain't you my babe?_

Crowley had never seen Aziraphale so close to tears.

Not with a smile on his face. 

He pulled the angel closer, laying his cheek against his husband’s temple, and closed his uncovered eyes. They swayed for a few moments, quiet, simply breathing each other in. 

The rest of the world flooded back in, the gentle guitar and melodious baritone palpable under the whispers and rustling of their wedding guests. 

It had taken seven years— seven years after the apocalypse, there was no reason to fear anymore. Newt and Anathema had married; the world had not imploded. The Antichrist and his friends had moved up through their schooling levels (Pepper at the top of the class, Brian somewhere towards the bottom); the world had not imploded. Shadwell and Madame Tracy had moved in together; the world had not imploded. 

Crowley and Aziraphale had lived together as husbands for six and three-quarter years; the world had not imploded. 

In the first year, there was light. The light of relief, of closeness, of joy. The light of knowing your love was within arm’s reach, within a call to the other room. The light of waking up to a golden gaze and gentle hands. 

In the second year, there was the sky. Aziraphale dragged Crowley out to new places, new sunshine, new ground under their feet. They watched the clouds go by; they watched birds fly overhead; they watched colors change at the beginning and end of days. 

In the third year, the garden was cultivated. Aziraphale watched as Crowley changed the placements of plants, tended to the pickier flowers, dug his fingers into the dark earth and created. Aziraphale watched as his husband turned the sun room into a greenhouse, luscious and peaty and reminding them both of something older. 

In the fourth year, there were stars, big and small. New discoveries and creations, found together, made together, loved together. Spots in the kitchen were dotted with bright memories. Flowers in the garden sprouted and grew skyward. Cushions were placed in sunny spots to bring smiles to faces. In the night, there were brushes of hands and thighs, kisses deposited on cooling skin, warm cups of cocoa handed without question or reproach. 

In the fifth year, there were creatures. There were creatures of comfort— Newt, Anathema, the Antichrist and his friends, Shadwell and Madame Tracy, neighbors finally coming to say hello. There were birds that landed in Crowley’s bushes and ate from Aziraphale’s hands. There were deer and rabbits that sniffed in the garden, but did not take. There were bees, thriving under Aziraphale’s guidance, returning the gift of life tenfold. 

In the sixth year, there was Humanity. Some days, Aziraphale and Crowley mingled in the town, becoming regulars at shops and restaurants, learning the names of teachers and magistrates and children. Some days, Aziraphale and Crowley retreated into their home, learning their bodies and minds and souls all over again. 

In the seventh year, coming to a cusp, there was rest. There was a settling of souls, a quiet building of the feeling that, perhaps, they really were going to be okay. 

And as the seventh year drew to a close, the angel finally convinced the demon that they might as well have a document to prove the existence of their age old love story. 

Crowley indulged Aziraphale in the collection of documents; he could not deny his love another book. 

Besides, as much as they were already married, the document had a certain warmth about it. And Anathema had put together quite a lovely reception. 

Pepper didn’t even rail about the oppressive history of marriage. All in all, a complete success. 

Crowley relished the sense of chaos that came with his love for and with the angel. Neither Heaven nor Hell could touch them, and Humanity was afraid to challenge something they couldn’t quite fathom. 

The world as they knew it was thrown, normalcy ablaze with the wind of change. It was all due to them, Aziraphale noted, all something he and his demon love had brought about. Crowley noted the observation was made with pleasure, self-satisfaction. 

Of course, Humanity looked to all the wrong places for blame. It wasn’t bad, though— Crowley and his angel love were mostly left to be, to luxuriate in the garden of warmth they’d created. 

“My husband,” Crowley heard in his ear. The angel’s mouth was tilted up skyward, cheek pressed to Crowley’s, smile scratching against the stubble on Crowley’s jaw. 

“My husband,” Crowley answered, and Aziraphale pulled back to grin at him. 

The angel reached around the demon’s neck, brushing his fingers against the demon’s exposed nape; most of his now-long hair had been swept up and curled together in a way that framed his angular features quite spectacularly. 

Crowley brushed his fingers over Aziraphale’s golden bowtie, a smile held between them privately. 

The seventh year was full of rest and peace, and the years that followed ushered in a new age. 


	7. I Crowley 7: 6052

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale goes Full Angry Angel. Last of the Crowley verses!

#  I Crowley 7: 6052

> _Nothing fucks with my baby_
> 
> _Nothing can get a look in on my baby_
> 
> _Nothing fucks with my baby_
> 
> _Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing_

There was a certain pleasure, after a fashion, that came with seeing Aziraphale go completely _ballistic_. 

At least to Crowley. 

It didn’t happen very often. Aziraphale was far too controlled for that to be the case; this made it all the more special when it did occur. It warmed Crowley to know such an angelic being was so capable of something so destructive. 

But, all things said, it took quite a bit to make Aziraphale lose control that badly. In this particular case, it pleased Crowley all the more to know Aziraphale was losing control in defense of him. 

After all, what demon doesn’t like to feel kept? 

It was not that Crowley never saw Aziraphale’s true form. In truth, he’d seen it enough to almost become tired of it. Occasionally, Aziraphale would have an extra arm or an extra few eyes— those were interesting times. For the most part, though, the angel was maddeningly consistent in the realm of his full power, just as he was in most areas of life. 

Crowley almost didn’t react to it, at this point. 

It was really poor decision making, on Hell’s part. Why Beelzebub thought attempting to come for Crowley’s throat would end well, Crowley couldn’t say. 

He could comment on the ashes littering his South Downs cottage. 

It was leaving quite the mess. He was going to have to clean it before Aziraphale came back to himself, or the angel would be quite distressed. 

He stood with his hands on his hips, really not minding the noise, watching in amusement as his former-fellows screamed in terror and anguish. 

Crowley was used to terrifying sights. He’d been around humanity too long to know anything else. 

This time, Aziraphale’s head glowed with holy flame, so hot it burned blue. The eyes on his face were pure white, holy beacons of hate and force. He held a flaming sword in his third right hand (the dominant one) and a scepter in his seventh left hand. His ninth and twelfth sets of arms held (non-Crowley) demons aloft, the other sets moving wildly in movements Crowley couldn’t quite make out. All six wings were stretched to their full potential (and had knocked over a lamp and table in the process). The eyes laid in feathers constantly moved, searching the surrounding air for more prey. 

He made quite the handsome picture, if that was your thing. 

Crowley tuned his back on the angel, leaving him to his work, and went off in search of their Roomba. 

By the time he’d found it and carried the robot to the first instance of demon-implosion, the cottage had been rid of all but one infernal being. He placed it on the floor, pressed a button to make it work, and went off in search of his husband. 

He found Aziraphale in the same place he’d left the angel, looking much more human than he had before, but still breathing heavily. His hands shook. 

Crowley strode forward, taking the angel’s shaking hands in his own. “All better?” 

Aziraphale looked up at him, eyes slowly returning to their characteristic blue-green. “I fucking hate when they try to pull that shit.” 

Crowley tutted, but his humor was betrayed by his smile. “Language, angel!” 

Aziraphale pushed at his chest, huffing a short laugh, then pulled Crowley in. Crowley let him burrow into his chest, tucking the angel under his chin. “Did I do much damage?” 

Crowley shrugged, soothing his hands over Aziraphale’s back. “I’d say you did a good deal.” He was rewarded with a flick to the collarbone and smiled. “Nah. You knocked over a lamp and left a lot of ashes, but the lamp isn’t cracked and the Roomba is working on the ashes.” 

Aziraphale nodded. “Good.” 

Crowley scrunched his fingers in the angel’s curls. “You’re cute,” he said after a moment.

“Stop,” Aziraphale whined half-heartedly. But his hands weren’t trembling quite as much anymore. “I want a nap.” 

“Oh, he actually wants to sleep!” Crowley faked shock, which earned him a giggle. “C’mon, then, you great oaf.” 

He dragged his husband back to bed, lay down with him, let the angel curl around him in a protective, possessive manner. _Mine,_ the gesture said, _don’t touch, don’t you dare._

And, well, Crowley liked feeling kept. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed hearing Crowley's side-- here we go with Aziraphale!


	8. I Aziraphale 7: 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley meet for the first time; Aziraphale feels protective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to shit I write while falling asleep on a plane. (I mean, in the interest of honesty, the last two chapters were also written on a plane, but this one in particular I was very sleepy~) 
> 
> I hope you enjoy Aziraphale's perspective-- we're backing up through the song now :)

#  I Aziraphale 7: 1 

> _Nothing fucks with my baby_
> 
> _Nothing can get a look in on my baby_
> 
> _Nothing fucks with my baby_
> 
> _Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing_

The first time Aziraphale had felt it necessary to defend Crowley, the demon had been little more than a snake. 

They’d spoken— long ago, before the Fall of Lucifer and his fellows, before Aziraphale learned that if questions were asked, they could be punished, so it was best not to ask questions out loud. They’d spoken more recently as well, watching Adam and Eve leave the Garden. 

Aziraphale hadn’t the heart, then, to question whether he’d been meant to talk to the demon. 

Sure, he would have a good bit of panic later. But that would be then. Right now, he was standing before the Guardian of the Western Gate, both angels towering much taller than was fit for human consumption, holy forms engaged in war. 

It was a good thing the humans no longer occupied the Garden. 

You see, Aziraphale had faith enough to know that humans leaving the Garden was for the best. He had faith enough to believe the Holy Mother had seen this line of events coming, that perhaps She Herself had sent Crowley. 

This other angel did not. This other angel had placed their foot on the serpent’s neck, pressing down hard enough that a lean in the wrong direction could cause some serious damage. 

Aziraphale did not know why this made him so angry, but it did. 

Instead of asking why, Aziraphale acted. The Western Guardian seemed almost frightened, and it welled a sense of pride in Aziraphale. 

He noted when the serpent slithered away, a great sense of relief flooding over him. He knew not whether he would see the demon again, but the memory of their conversation hung like the water saturating his wings from the First Rain. 

And he backed down from the Western Guardian, who fixed him a confused look before slipping off, back to the West. 

Aziraphale strode back towards the East and set about repairing the hole he’d created for Adam and Eve. He had half a mind to follow them, to guard them. 

They had his sword, he reasoned with himself. His sword was as good as his self. He had watched Adam use it, and the Man was adept enough to protect himself and Eve. Humanity could do without angelic interference, for now. 

Besides, the serpent might need more protection. 

He was, after all, charged with protecting All of God’s Creatures. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was much shorter, but I'm still getting a grip on the angel's voice. <3


	9. I Aziraphale 6: 6013

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley thinks it's sexy that Aziraphale no longer cares what either Head Office does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, folks! I've been visiting a whole host of people this week, and there hasn't been a lot of time to write. Hopefully this is worth it :) Enjoy!

#  I Aziraphale 6: 6013 

> _Ain't it warming you, the world gone up in flames?_  
>  _Ain't it the life you, your lighting of the blaze?_  
>  _Ain't it a waste they'd watch the throwing of the shade?_  
>  _Ain't you my baby, ain't you my babe?_

Crowley thrived on entropy. Aziraphale knew this. He’d known it from the moment everything Began, the moment the then-angel left his post by Her side to create stars in her name.

He thrived on entropy, and chaos, and all things Fast. 

You would think, if you knew these things, that Crowley would _like_ the apocalypse. That perhaps he would do his best work during those dark, chaotic times. Aziraphale certainly thought so. 

But the demon had been distressed at the beginning of the End, tetchy during the development, and utterly exhausted when it finished. 

The entropy that fueled Crowley, instead, seemed to be the kind that came with their own union. Crowley lived for the idea that their union seemed so wrong to the outside, but was truly so right. He was warmed by the sense of confusion and mild disgust that came from their respective Head Offices. 

Moreover, he was set alight by the fact that Aziraphale no longer cared what either Head Office thought. 

Aziraphale knew because the demon told him, late one night, a bottle of whiskey deep, his auburn locks pressed to Aziraphale’s lap. “You don’t—“ he hiccuped— “you don’t give a _shit_ anymore, and oh my sssssomeone, angel, it’s ss—“ he took a deep breath, running his own fingers through his hair, clunking into Aziraphale’s fingers. “Ssso fucking ssssexy.” 

“Mmmmm,” Aziraphale smiled, leaned down to steal a kiss from the demon’s lips. (Sharp, peaty, finishing a little sweetly, just like the whiskey.) “You’re quite right. They don’t register with me anymore.” 

Crowley groaned. 

Aziraphale took the hint, lifted the demon’s mouth to his, and carried the lanky mess to bed. 

Crowley shook apart to questions to which Aziraphale knew the answers— Do you like just how wrong _they_ think our relationship is? Do you like the attention focused on you? That it’s my gaze that owns you? That it’s _their_ horror that we fly in the face of? Do you love the insults _they_ whisper behind us, my laughter at _their_ incredulity? Do you love that you’re mine? Don’t you love that you’re _mine_? 

The answer, of course, was yes. Resoundingly so. 

Crowley was his. Crowley was owned by Aziraphale, and they both knew it. 

Aziraphale held his entropic mess close to his chest, kissing away the shudders, helping him settle into a peaceful warmth. 

In the safety of their bed, beneath the covers, in the quiet noise of Soho at midnight, Aziraphale confessed to Crowley. 

No, he did not care what Head Offices thought of them. He had reached a point beyond caring, as he burned for the demon, yearned for him, felt like he was losing his mind when they were apart. The world had almost ended, and Aziraphale had almost never had him. Set the world on fire, strike it all away with earthquakes and locusts and holy flame. He didn’t care. Throw the insults. He didn’t care. 

He had Crowley. 

And he brushed away the tears that came to his demon’s eyes, he kissed the wetness from his skin, let the demon cling until he was no longer clinging but caressing. 

Crowley nuzzled into the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, smiling again, less a smirk this time than a genuine spark of joy. 

“I love you,” the demon breathed. It was like a prayer.

“I love you,” the angel replied, commandments ringing, “you’re mine.” 

He let his wings spring forward, hovered above Crowley a moment. The feathers spread, then curved, covering them both. “Mine,” he whispered again.

Crowley breathed a sigh of relief, his eyes dropping to half-lidded. 

Aziraphale remained there until his demon eased into sleep. He watched his love drift off, staring up in contentment and warmth, like a snake laying in the bright sun. 

The demon belonged to the angel. He would make sure his darling boy stayed safe. He would make sure the powers of either Be would never lay a finger on his snakelike love. 

Aziraphale folded one wing in, settling on his side next to Crowley, curving the other wing over them both. He ran his fingers over the demon’s skin— warm, alive, safe. 

He watched the demon sleep, something a preternatural being should not do. 

A perfect picture of entropy.


	10. I Aziraphale 5: 7786

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale knew Crowley before we knew Crowley. He still loves him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, sorry for the delay, but here I am at the airport again about to be on a flight, so...probably several chapters tonight! 
> 
> Also, I don't know why the chapter manifested in a different tense. But it did and I am powerless to change it.

#  I Aziraphale 5: 7786 

> _If I was born as a blackthorn tree_  
>  _I'd wanna be felled by you_  
>  _Held by you_  
>  _Fuel the pyre of your enemies_

Aziraphale remembers.

He remembers when his demon was his angel, wings red like gentle fire, heart in his eyes, teeth wide as they were blunt. He remembers when Crowley built nebulas, shaped them into worlds and stars and systems in their own rights. 

He remembers, but Crowley does not. 

He can live with this. He has decided that he can, now, after he has a guarantee that Heaven or Hell won’t take his dear one away again. He can trade searing lips and wings pressed into clouds for the slow, tentative grasp of hand against hesitant hand. He can. 

He has learned to love this new version of his only one, and he would do it over and over again. He would work through every incarnation of Crowley, just to love him again and again and again. 

Aziraphale remembers, and he loves. He loves dearly. He sees his love everywhere, in the twist of the blackthorn tree that lights a chieftain’s prisoner aflame, the stars his love built in another life, the way the tires of certain cars continue to roll after the car itself has stopped. He feels his love everywhere.

He feels the maddening power of it. There is so much power in the demon, more than the demon wants to admit. The chaos built into his skin, the removal from heaven just for a question, it is all so powerful. 

He thinks on this, not long after they are married in the human tradition, sitting alone at a coffee shop in a town north of the Black Sea. He smiles at the shop’s owner, thanking them for the espresso, and sits back to sip. 

It looks like he’s watching the crowd. He is not; he is watching memories span before him, waiting for Crowley to join him so they can go home and properly relax together. 

(It’s been a month. Crowley has been gone a month, peddling his wares as A. C. Fell, and Aziraphale has been regretting not going with him for about three weeks.) 

He thinks of Crowley stopping time— God Above, the power in that. That he did it for his angel, well. That’s another thing entirely. 

He thinks of Crowley helping burn traitors, simply because he was asked for help. 

He thinks of Crowley, stepping into Hellfire for him, terrorizing Head Office so much that they’d both recieved a quite lovely apology card. 

He thinks of Crowley, stepping up to show his true demonic form, when Aziraphale was too weak from returning to his own corporeal form. He thinks of the ineffable blackness that took over the room, tiny pinpricks of yellow identifying him within his anger. He thinks of the constant sound of hissing, like fire crackling. He thinks of the fear that emanated through the room. 

Yes, Aziraphale thinks, he would fall for the demon, over and over again, no matter how many times it took. 

He finishes this thought, and then Crowley is in front of him, dropping into a chair with a sigh and tugging his tie loose from his collared button down. 

Aziraphale remembers, and he loves, and he smiles, burning with love, holding a hand out to be held. 

Crowley holds his hand, and smiles back.


	11. I Aziraphale 4: 7000

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crowley can be just as protective of Aziraphale as the angel is of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still struggling to really sit in Aziraphale's brain. Not quite sure why, but I'm hoping that by that last chapter I really get it. 
> 
> Thanks for bearing with me in the meantime <3

# I Aziraphale 4: 7000

> _Nothing fucks with my baby_  
>  _Nothing can get a look in on my baby_  
>  _Nothing fucks with my baby_  
>  _Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing_

God Above, Bless the idiot that fucked with Crowley.

And he did mean this. Because they would need that. 

Partly because the demon was under _his_ protection, and that was no joke— Aziraphale was a soldier once, and though he indulged in many earthly pleasures these days, it was not hard for him to remember the grip of a sword hilt or the cascade of muscles that led to a kill. 

Partly because the demon, in his true form, was something to behold in and of himself. 

Aziraphale so rarely saw it. Most of the time, Crowley did not actually particularly care if someone threatened him. And Crowley remembered that Aziraphale had been a soldier, and so would often let the angel defend himself. 

But, oh Lord Almighty, when Crowley deemed it necessary, he was as frightening as a nightmare in the witching hour. 

Crowley really only went True Demon when he felt Aziraphale was under true threat. In this case, Aziraphale had just returned to his human-ish form, thinking they had been made safe. 

(In his defense, all the demons had disappeared. It had been quiet for a minute before he left his True Angel form.) 

When foolish humans rushed in almost immediately after, armed to the teeth, Aziraphale almost felt bad. 

They’d never find out what the idiots wanted. 

It wasn’t as if they couldn’t handle a few armed humans. On any other day, Crowley would have laughed, waved a hand, and told them to “kindly _fuck off_.” But this was not any other day, and there was nothing kind about Crowley here. 

Aziraphale breathed in awed gasps of rapidly warming air as the room grew dark. 

The humans shivered. Aziraphale did, too, but for an entirely different reason; Crowley, as always, was _gorgeous_. 

He took all the light in the room. He devoured the light like a hungry being, golden eyes shrinking to points nearly lost many feet above where Aziraphale lay. His bright hair disappeared into the darkness, instead leaving a _feeling_ of red— consumption, passion, anger, fear. His beautiful wings were barely colored now, blues and greens and purples dissolving into blackness. 

Crowley in True Form was as much an experience as a sight. There was the constant sound of hissing, like a snake circling your head, like the wind whistling through the very tops of trees before a hurricane hits. There was the feeling that you were about to die; chest seized in absolute terror, life slipping from your tightly grasped hands, mouth suddenly dry at the prospect of your own mortality. Hands shook in his presence, because otherwise they would fall still, and that would be too terrible. 

There was the blackness, crushing; there was the sound, disturbing and crackling; there was the feeling, fear paralyzing you to your very core. 

Aziraphale was enraptured. 

The screams of the humans were a bonus. 

Crowley spoke in a language too ancient for them to understand, commanding them to leave the cottage, leave their weapons behind, be doomed to whatever found them outside. 

Aziraphale was unsure anything but the large, night-clad wings of Death awaited them outside— perhaps fire that would sear them from their bones in seconds?— but the humans went readily, willing to do almost anything to escape the sight before them. 

Crowley was back to his human(-ish) form in less than a second. He knelt by Aziraphale, hands running over the angel’s clothes to reassure himself. 

“Oh, my sweetest love,” Aziraphale murmured, “how resplendent you are.” 

Crowley blushed lightly. “ ‘m not— are you okay?” 

“Oh, marvelous.” Aziraphale felt out of breath, not helped when Crowley laid his hands over Aziraphale’s chest with his eyebrows curved up in concern. “I promise you, dear thing, I am quite well.” 

Crowley shook his head, but dipped his face down to tuck himself into Aziraphale’s neck. He pressed little kisses against angelic skin, calming himself more than Aziraphale, and wrapped his hands around Aziraphale’s back. 

Aziraphale felt himself lifted, squeaked in surprise. Crowley paused for a moment. 

“No, it’s fine,” Aziraphale breathed, “just unexpected.” 

“Let me care for you,” Crowley breathed back, still not moving. 

Aziraphale wrapped his arms around the demon’s neck and tucked his head under Crowley’s chin, and Crowley began carrying him to bed. 

Perhaps the Almighty Herself could not truly help any that caused Crowley to go truly Demonic. Perhaps it caused a warm feeling in Aziraphale’s belly. Perhaps he curled into the demon late that night, humming with pleasure and safety and love.


	12. I Aziraphale 3: 6070

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale and Crowley are in an airport when Aziraphale finally processes Armageddidn’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote this section on the plane, ironically listening mostly to Jon Bellion’s album _The Human Condition_. (If you’re interested, specifically Weight of the World, Good in Me, Guillotine, and about 15 times, Hand of God (outro). The whole album actually seems like something the Ineffable Husbands would listen to. Crowley would call it ridiculous, but he would secretly play it in the Bentley. Aziraphale listens to it on repeat, which is why Crowley finally buys him earphones.) 
> 
> (Also Hand of God (Outro) is cathartic in a way that punches you in the gut, so Crowley probably listens to it a lot)
> 
> It’s semantics, but excitement isn't always a _good_ thing.
> 
> (I am very tired no time to proofread we die like men)

# I Aziraphale 3: 6070

> _Ain't it a gentle sound, the rolling in the graves?_  
>  _Ain't it like thunder under earth, the sound it makes?_  
>  _Ain't it exciting you, the rumble where you lay?_  
>  _Ain't you my baby, ain't you my baby?_

It’s at an airport that everything finally hits Aziraphale.

It’s crushing, those senses of terror and relief and anger and grief all mixing into a paralyzing cocktail. He can’t do anything but stare ahead, wide eyed. 

The Apocalypse, Armageddon, the End of the World, had come and gone. He had backhanded Crowley over and over again throughout it, and then Crowley had stopped time for him, and he gave his heart to the demon, offered palm up with two hands. 

The demon had taken it, using both hands, and devoured it.

Kindly. 

The End of the World had come and gone, he had gained his love, and the rest of the world hadn’t noticed. 

The rest of the world hadn’t noticed— truly, the rest of the world had forgotten. But Aziraphale remembered; he remembered when Crowley rolled in his sleep, mouth open in a scream but whimpers leaking forward. He remembered when he held his dearest one close, shushed him through shaking in fear. He remembered when Anathema Device came to him with fear in her eyes and hands that trembled almost as much as his own. He remembered when Adam asked for help with a project on the First World War and his hands shook so badly he needed to leave. 

He remembered when Crowley took his hand, stilled the shaking, placed a cup of something hot against his palm. 

“You alright, angel?” 

Aziraphale glanced at him. It was a short, quick glance before he resumed staring straight ahead. His eyes were starting to get too dry, tearing up slightly, so he blinked. Crowley’s eyes had been boring into the side of his face for three seconds before he remembered to respond. 

“Uh.” 

Crowley snorted, and Aziraphale jumped. That confused Crowley, and he took the hot something from Aziraphale’s hand and threaded their fingers together. “Angel, what in the world is going on?”

“I…”

Aziraphale couldn’t place it. Everything was fine. It was normal. It was _safe_. 

But he didn’t feel safe. 

He felt loved, sure. He felt very, very loved, Crowley made sure of it, was doing that even now, smoothing his fingers over the back of the angel’s hand. It wasn’t that Aziraphale didn’t feel _loved_ , but something felt _off._

Spooky. Like the dead had come back from their graves. Which, in all reality, if Aziraphale were being honest, they had. 

It was like some really fucked up version of the Rapture. 

A plane rumbled to life and Aziraphale jumped again, this time letting out an involuntary “oh!” 

Crowley slid to the floor in front of him, taking both his hands in one and placing his free hand on the angel’s knee. He spent a moment without saying anything. Then he kissed Aziraphale’s knuckles and took a breath. 

“We don’t have to get on this plane, you know.” Aziraphale swallowed. “We don’t. If it’s too much, we can get on the airway, and then whisk away until they land, get off the airway with them. We can still look like normal passengers. We don’t even have to use our wings.” 

He paused, now, waiting for Aziraphale to think. Aziraphale couldn’t do that when he was staring at Crowley, so he closed his eyes. 

He willed himself not to remember the hot asphalt in the dead of summer at the End of the World. He willed himself not to think of his flaming sword in the hands of War. He willed himself not to think of the way the air base had roared to life seconds after Adam Young left it. 

He failed rather miserably. 

And then Crowley was straddling him, standing now, but his hands were behind Aziraphale’s head and neck. His face was pressed to the demon’s chest, which was good, because the angel was sobbing quite violently. 

“ ’S’alright, ’s’alright,” Crowley murmured comfortingly, massaging at the back of the angel’s scalp. “ ’S’alright, I’ve got you.” He pressed kisses to the top of Aziraphale’s head. Aziraphale found his fists were balled in Crowley’s shirt. “That’s okay. You’re okay.”

And then, the one thing that stilled either of them when they had these sorts of attacks, “I’m here.” 

Aziraphale found the sobs receding, his hands loosening, his breaths evening out. They still shuddered in, but they weren’t painful anymore. 

Eventually, he pulled his hands from Crowley’s sides and wiped at his face. “Oh dear,” he murmured shakily, trying to disguise it with a laugh, “quite silly of me.” 

“Not silly,” Crowley said, slipping to sit to his left, now— the vulnerable side. He felt a pang of affection for the infernal being. “Last time we saw a plane, the world was ending.” 

“I thought— the whole point of this was to relax.”

“Yeah, but when have you actually ever relaxed?” 

Aziraphale turned his head to scoff at the demon, but Crowley was giving him that shit-eating grin, the one that says _I got you with that one, that was a funny one, you gotta laugh at that one_. 

And he had. Aziraphale laughed. Crowley held his hand. 

Another plane took off, and the earth rumbled, and Aziraphale tried to think of thunder rather than Satan. Crowley soothed his thumb over the back of Aziraphale’s hand. A baby screamed in discomfort and Aziraphale said a prayer. 

A woman sat down across from them, a dog in front of her, wearing a vest that read “service dog.” 

The dog cocked his head at Aziraphale, looked back at his owner, then looked at Crowley. 

“Yeah,” Crowley said to the shaggy being, “I know. I got it though, you do your job.” 

The dog seemed satisfied. Aziraphale giggled. 

“There he is,” Crowley murmured, and Aziraphale felt something in his chest utterly shatter. “Go ahead, drink your tea. Got you chamomile. Probably not any good— pass me my coffee.” He reached over Aziraphale, and the angel passed him one paper cup, taking the other in his hand and sipping tentatively. 

It wasn’t very good, but it wasn’t horribly awful. 

“Yeah, my coffee’s not great either,” Crowley said. “It’s Starbucks, though, and they burn their coffee.”

“One of yours?” Aziraphale asked, falling back on an old joke. 

Crowley snorted. “Not me. Might have a certain signature to it, though.” 

Aziraphale let his head fall to clunk gently against Crowley’s. 

When the plane took off, Aziraphale gripped Crowley’s hand. He was rigid as a board, and the demon said nothing of it, just kept holding his hand. The plane shook, it roared, it seemed like it rolled over on itself as Aziraphale went dizzy. Crowley held his hand. 

And when they were in the air, Crowley placed a gentle kiss to Aziraphale’s temple before pulling the angel’s head down to his shoulder. 

Aziraphale let his eyes fall closed, breathed in the smell of black pepper and peonies. 

“Thank you,” he murmured, almost too soft to hear over the thundering engines. 

“Ain’t you mine?” Crowley said in response, lips turned up in a smile. 

Aziraphale snuggled in closer.


	13. I Aziraphale 2: 12, 4144, 5720

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale loves everything about Crowley, but he has a soft spot for something a demon shouldn’t be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose I get a tiny bit political in this one? 
> 
> Again, written on a plane. It's 2 am and I'm too tired to proofread. Enjoy!

# I Aziraphale 2: 12, 4144, 5720

> _Give your heart and soul to charity_  
>  _'Cause the rest of you_  
>  _The best of you_  
>  _Honey, belongs to me_

Aziraphale loved Crowley. That was a given, and probably always had, even if the angel hadn’t comprehended it until 1941. Forgive him for being a bit slow; being a creation and creator of love, he’d failed to notice he was the epicenter for a completely selfish love.

But Aziraphale loved Crowley, and for all his qualities. His favorite, though, might have been the way the demon was totally, utterly selfless. 

In Rome, he watched the demon give away half the clothes on his body. They’d gone to oysters, and Crowley had spotted a man weakly struggling along the road. Aziraphale had barely kept up with the demon. By the time he was with the man, Crowley had already removed three layers of draped fabric, using a few scraps to clean the man’s face, gently replacing tattered fabric with softer, kinder cloth. 

Aziraphale felt a tingling in his fingers, wanted to touch them to the demon’s brow in some sort of worship. 

When asked, Crowley shrugged, saying “He needed clothes.” 

Aziraphale felt a tug in his gut, then, an urge to claim and protect, to say _this is mine and you can’t have it, don’t touch, I keep him safe_. 

In America, Aziraphale watched Crowley perform small acts of mercy. Many would have considered it cruel to end a man’s life, but Crowley knew these people would not survive their wounds, and so he ghosted over abandoned battlefields, silencing the whimpers of soldiers left behind. Aziraphale watched the pain on his face as he helped soldiers of the Queen and of the New Country alike over the bridge to Endless Night. 

Aziraphale held him afterwards, pretending to ignore the sobs, instead running his fingers through the black-like feathers of Crowley’s wings. He hoped it would soothe the demon. Eventually, Crowley fell asleep, and Aziraphale tucked him into a makeshift bed they’d been sharing. 

In Ireland, he watched Crowley give up food. 

That didn’t seem like a big deal, to some— preternatural beings, as they were, did not need food. But their Irish subjects had little to eat. They were starving, and yet they were building, inventing, trying to keep their country together in terrible— but perhaps necessary— acts of violence and war. Aziraphale almost found it admirable, how hard they were trying. The cynic in him found it sad. 

Crowley found it worth saving. So he pushed bowls of porridge back to the giver, saying “save it for your lads,” and insisting he would be fine. He worked with the more inventive fellows, whispering secrets about chemicals and their explosive properties. He fed the boys mentally, and refused to take the food that kept their bellies from shrinking to nothing. 

And Aziraphale loved him for it. He did. He loved his demon so dearly, and for all his qualities. But his fingers tingled when Crowley gave without expecting anything in return. He ached to hold the demon when it cost him. 

When Crowley let him, he felt so much relief he thought his heart might burst. Oh, he loved the demon, and the demon belonged to him, yes. Crowley was a sight to behold, in Aziraphale’s care. 

Crowley gave his Charity— an astonishing amount for a being cast out of heaven—to humanity, but he gave the rest of himself to Aziraphale. 

Aziraphale held him close, cherished him in a near-blasphemous way. 

Crowley smiled in his arms, and Aziraphale would shirk the world for him.


	14. I Aziraphale 1: 1-4, 4981, 5092, 5900-5905, 6001

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale has a lot of thoughts. Most relate to Crowley. 
> 
> (Final chapter!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all I am so sorry this took so long! I'm in the middle of prepping to move and life got to be A Lot, and Aziraphale refused to let me use his voice until I had some shit settled and then had some hot chocolate. 
> 
> I hope y'all like it. It's a good deal longer than the other chapters. Once angelbutt and me started talking, we couldn't stop. 
> 
> This includes, like, all my headcanons about the boys and their history, whoof. 
> 
> There's explicit discussion of suicidal tendencies, but from an outside perspective. If that will be a trigger for you, please skip from "Why, _why_ in the _world_ had he said that?" to "It was a lie, and it wasn't." 
> 
> Enjoy <3

# I Aziraphale 1: 1-4, 4981, 5092, 5900-5905, 6001

> _When I first saw you_  
>  _The end was soon_  
>  _To Bethlehem it slouched_  
>  _And then, it must've caught a good look at you_

The First Rain came as the only two humans walked away from Aziraphale’s gate, carrying his flaming sword, and the angel found he was full of anxiety. 

It was only natural— only _good_ , truly— that his wing would come up to shield the demon. After all, it was the First Rain, and what would happen to the poor Fallen being if it were holy water? His sword was holy, and it had cut down plenty of the Fallen. Permanently. 

He shuddered slightly. 

“Alright there, angel?” the demon— Crawley— asked. 

Aziraphale did not respond, not vocally. He pulled Crawley closer with the tips of his outer primaries. When the demon’s wings flashed back slightly, he reached out to softly pull them in with a gentle hand. 

He caught the look the demon was giving him. He knew it. He knew the demon’s emotions, because the demon was really just an angel, one who had Fallen. He was an angel who had built stars and now felt at home and in love and confused. 

Crawley, the Once Angel, for whom Aziraphale’s nonessential heart fluttered, was more at home on the Eastern Wall of Eden than he would ever be in Hell. Aziraphale wanted to keep him there. 

By his side. 

It was not the first time he had thought this particular want. It would not be the last. 

Aziraphale had discipline— he had been a soldier once, and given the ineffability of the universe, it was not all that long ago. He had a soldier’s trained eye, too, and it allowed him to spot Crawley the day before the Flood. 

He pretended not to see Crawley. He drew on discipline. 

He acted aloof, but oh, when the rain began, he mourned the loss of the demon by his side. Longing for the Fallen was certainly not _good_ , but if this longing had begun before the Falling, could it truly be _bad_? 

He found the demon later in the First Night of Rain. He was sitting on the top of a mountain, arms wrapped around his knees. Aziraphale landed next to him. 

“Quite alright?” Aziraphale asked gently. 

Crawley did not answer. He pulled his arms about his knees tighter. He buried his head in his knees, took an unnecessary breath to attempt to steady himself. 

Aziraphale sighed and plopped down next to him. He laid an arm across Crawley’s shoulders. “We can’t know why,” he murmured. 

“Children,” Crawley hissed, “She killed fucking _children_.” 

Aziraphale tipped his head back to look at the sky. “I know.”

“Don’t tell me it’s fucking ineffable.” 

“I won’t.” 

Crawley seemed surprised by this. He looked up at Aziraphale and Aziraphale wondered if his skin felt the same, whether it would still be soft and smooth and somewhat cool. Whether the skin at his jaw would still be just a bit prickly. Whether those eyes would remember his. 

“Are you going to tell me sacrifices must be made for the greater good?” Crawley drawled, a sneer crossing his lips. 

“No,” Aziraphale said, shifting vaguely uncomfortably. “No, I don’t think I much…appreciate sacrifices anymore.” 

_Not since I lost you._

It caught the demon off guard, and visibly so. Aziraphale turned away to let the demon stare. He watched the flood rise. He watched the water come to their feet and then still, watched the ark go off to find a new Eden. 

“Shall I see you in forty days?” Aziraphale said finally. 

Crawley took a few more moments before he said anything. “I…yes, I think you will.”

“Well.” He stood, patted the demon’s shoulder, and straightened his robe. “Well, then I shall see you when the dove flies.” 

And he did. He saw Crawley watch the dove. He saw Crawley hand the dove the olive leaf himself, and felt that age-old swell of love in his chest. He ignored this, for the demon’s sake, when he landed next to him. 

He watched more children come out of the ark than belonged to Noah’s family. He stole a glance at Crawley and found the demon staring at him, almost looking for some sort of approval. 

“Well,” Aziraphale breathed, then paused. He wasn’t sure what to say. He couldn’t rightly say how dearly he loved this. He couldn’t rightly take the demon in his arms the way he’d seen Noah take his wife. There were many things that were strictly off limits here, but he wanted them all. How could he convey them in words? 

“Well, I— I’m glad you were able to save them.” 

Crawley grinned. 

The next time he saw Crawley smile, it was at the birth of the Newborn King. Aziraphale was a soldier, but he had been present at the birth of the first man, and he had no problem helping the birth of the Savior. 

Besides, Mary was _very_ strong. As a soldier, he appreciated this. 

Joseph was a little boring, if he was completely honest. But there was a reason Aziraphale had brought material to read. 

“All God’s Creatures, Joseph,” he said, bored with the man’s alarm, “are welcome to see the Newborn King.” 

And when Crawley was before him, Aziraphale felt a certain power rush through him. You see, angels are beings of love, and they are powered by love, and oh dear, yes, he was still very much in love. 

It took him nothing at all to frighten the dogs of Hell away. When he came back to a less frightening form, he found Crawley looking up at him, jaw open.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, fighting off a fond smile. “You’re going to catch a donkey’s tail, dear, and they don’t particularly taste good.” 

Crawley’s jaw snapped shut with an audible click, and then he was laughing. Aziraphale found himself smiling along. 

Joseph seemed terrified. Mary was exhausted. When Jesus awoke, he babbled happily, reaching his arms towards the ethereal and the occult. Crawley was immediately besotted, and Aziraphale loved that look on him.  
It made it all the more painful to hear him, years later, as his voiced cracked over “I showed him all the kingdoms of the world.”

“Why?” Why would you put yourself through that pain? Why would you do this to yourself— why would you sacrifice yourself _again_? 

Crawley did not stick around for the resurrection. Aziraphale did. When Jesus Christ knocked on the stone blocking his way out, Aziraphale was there, and waiting.

“Oh, goodness, look at you,” Aziraphale tutted. “We should get you cleaned up.”

Jesus smiled. “It’s good to see you, angel.”

It’s commonly believed that the only being on earth to have ever called Aziraphale “angel” is the demon Crowley. In reality, there had been two— Jesus was the other. 

He got it from Crowley. 

“And you, my boy, now there’s a stream not far.” 

They walked arm in arm, and Aziraphale did not mind the grime and blood that stained his robes. They walked mostly in silence until they reached the stream, clear and clean, and stepped into it together. 

“Lay back,” Aziraphale directed. He had found a perch within the water, and patted his thighs. 

Jesus blinked for a moment, then lay back against him. Aziraphale busied himself with combing through the young man’s hair. 

Man, but God, Aziraphale mused. How odd. 

“You know, I do feel I’ve learned quite a bit,” Jesus murmured. He looked up at Aziraphale with brown eyes that sparkled just the tiniest bit gold. The Little Lord’s eyes reminded him of a doe. 

Like his mothers. 

“What did you learn, dear child?”

Jesus smiled. The lines by his eyes crinkled; he was not a child anymore. “We are a foolish people, Aziraphale.” 

“Yes. I would have thought you learned that long ago,” Aziraphale joked. 

Jesus laughed. “Well, yes. But I suppose— well, I learned—“ he stopped, frowning, and Aziraphale chuckled at the childlike expression on his face. “Stop that! I just mean…” He fell silent. 

“What did you mean?” Aziraphale encouraged. He’d begun on Jesus’s beard. 

“They, well, we, make our choices too quickly. The only beings of choice, and we don’t even wait for all the questions to be answered before jumping to action.” 

“You’re not the only ones to do that,” Aziraphale said softy. He couldn’t help the image of yellow eyes that came to mind. 

Jesus stilled his hand. “You mean Crowley.”

Aziraphale blinked. “I…”

Jesus released the angel’s fingers, turning to sit up, much of the grime gone from him. “I know, Aziraphale.” He reached up, running his fingers through the angel’s curls, and there was nothing but kindness on his holy face. “I am not human or God, and yet both. I can feel the love just as you can. And you are both so…” 

Aziraphale waited patiently. He took Jesus’s hands and massaged the dirt away under the running water. 

“It’s going to take you both so long, and I wish it wouldn’t, but it’s part of a Plan neither of us can know.” 

Aziraphale looked up for a moment, his hands not stopping. “Child.” 

“I will miss you,” Jesus murmured. Aziraphale did stop at that, looked up at him. “When I leave. I’ll miss you and your kindness and your love.” Jesus shot him that precious schoolboy smile and ruffled his wet fingers through the angel’s curls. 

Aziraphale laughed despite himself. “Oh, Child, I shall miss you too.”

Jesus’s smile faltered. “Will you?” 

Aziraphale took the man-god’s face in his hands, tried to convey the paternal love he felt for him. “I’ll miss you, Jesus of Nazareth. You will forever be on my mind.”

“Will you…say goodbye to Crowley for me?”

Aziraphale sighed, lifting the Christ’s feet onto his lap, running his thumbs along the sore spots. “Of course, dear boy. I know he has mourned you a good deal.” 

Jesus frowned at that. Aziraphale continued his work until the Child of God was clean, then walked with him to return to his people. A few hours later, he found Crowley sitting in front of the now-empty tomb. 

He relayed Christ’s goodbyes and held Crowley’s hand, massaging the trembling muscles. He watched in kindness and love as the demon failed at choking back tears. 

He vowed no one would make his love feel this much pain again. 

Aziraphale had been a soldier once. Crowley had been an angel once. 

In the Great War— the second, technically, but to the humans it would be the first— they did not return to these roles. Aziraphale became a protector of children; he could not bear to see his demon mourn over children again. He housed the children in his bookshop. He let their parents work at the shop, let everyone believe that his shop was much larger than it was. 

No, Aziraphale was not a soldier in this war. That role belonged to Crowley. 

He feared it. The fear gripped him in long, sleepless nights as he listened to children snore quietly. He feared Crowley would be hurt, discorporated, destroyed, all manner of things. He had nightmares without sleeping. He felt his chest squeeze and release with every letter he recieved from the demon. 

He taught children to read using books he gave away— books he would not see again until Adam restored his shop. 

He could not stop part of his bookshop being destroyed. He could herd the children away from the epicenter of where the bomb would fall, carrying as many of his books as they could. The few that were left, he miracled away to them, and then the world went dark. 

He assumed he would wake in the cold, harsh light of Heaven. He assumed they would nod sadly at him and send him back to Earth with a new body. 

He assumed wrong. 

He was pulled from the outer wreckage of the impact by Crowley himself, screaming Aziraphale’s name, eyes wide and golden. He ran his hands over Aziraphale’s mangled body, setting bones right, skin back together, joints back in place. 

“Aziraphale, _Aziraphale, AZIRAPHALE_ —“ 

“I—“ he choked off, coughing madly, and had a flask of water shoved to his lips. He gulped greedily, swallowed dry a few times, and started again. “I am so glad you’re here.” 

“Angel, Aziraphale—“ 

Aziraphale’s eyes went wide, remembering his bookshop. “The children!” 

Crowley helped him up, and they found the children together. “Are you here to save us?” a small girl asked, looking up at the still-uniformed soldier.

Crowley blinked, reached out a hand and then hesitated. The girl reached forward hungrily and held it. 

“Yes. I am. Come on, Mr Fell,” he said, turning to Aziraphale, “let’s get these children somewhere _safe_.” 

They did. They took the children to a place in the country, and for all the love Aziraphale had given the children, they clung to Crowley. Crowley gave them just as much love as Aziraphale had, if not more. At the end of a very short week Crowley made to leave. 

“Stay,” Aziraphale asked him, standing in front of the door, his hands shaking. 

Crowley looked at him in vulnerable fear. He took Aziraphale’s hands in his own. “We should get this checked out. Can’t have you disincorporating on me.”

It was a joke, but Aziraphale gripped at his hands. “Then stay.”

His hands shook in Crowley’s, and Crowley held his hands tighter. “Okay.” 

The children loved Crowley. It was something they had in common with Aziraphale. Crowley spent the next two years in a house surrounded by love. Aziraphale’s hands shook, but Crowley never minded, took over making tea to hide it from the children. 

Aziraphale treasured these two years. They were some of the happiest years of his (very long) life. They woke up in the same bed, spent almost all day together, put the children in their charge to bed, and spent nights remembering old days. They grew close. They dredged up old wounds, carving out the infected parts until Aziraphale’s hands shook visibly. Then they would sit and heal, words or no words, spoken and left unsaid, while Crowley held his hands. Sometimes Aziraphale would hold Crowley until his trembling stopped. Sometimes they held each other simply to hold each other. 

At the end of the Great War, they returned to London, and to some sense of normalcy. But Aziraphale missed Crowley, missed the open vulnerability that came with their care of the war’s children. 

Regardless of the year, if there were lost and forgotten children, Crowley was there. 

Aziraphale was there for the people of his community. Soho became a hub for those who’s love was under scrutiny, and he could not in good conscience let his neighbors die. 

Crowley found him in 1991, left hand shaking as he held the hand of a dying man in his right. Crowley found him like that throughout the 90s. He found him at rallies in the United States, screaming his voice hoarse, tears down his face. Crowley found him bent over men and women in allies, sick with a disease the angel couldn’t heal. 

Aziraphale was a soldier once. It did not prepare him for this pain. 

Azirpahale was not there when the first brick was thrown at Stonewall, but he had smiled when Crowley told him of it. Aziraphale marched, trading his soldier’s gait for a strong plod, always offering to carry, to feed, to soothe. 

“You know, you’re close to a patron saint, these days,” Crowley murmured over tea one morning in the winter of 1996. 

Aziraphale looked up, feeling a swell of warmth that the demon was so close this early in the morning. “Blasphemy.” 

“Nah,” Crowley smiled, teeth sharp. “Look at the work you’ve done.” He chuckled, leaving plenty of things unsaid. 

Aziraphale shook his head, then his hands, and went back to perusing the morning newspaper. “Have you heard the new musical out in America? It certainly seems interesting.” 

And then there was the Antichrist. 

Aziraphale climbed into Crowley’s Bentley and rode with him to Tadfield. He rode in silence, other than his worrying over speed occasionally. 

In the silence, he thought about the phrase he’d said the last time he’d felt this distressed. “You go too fast for me, Crowley.”

“You go too fast.”

“Too fast for me.”

“For me, Crowley.” 

The words bounced around in his head, in and out of order. What, truly, was he so afraid of? The years he’d spent by Crowley’s side were the best of his life. The years they’d spent apart were the worst. 

Why, _why_ in the _world_ , had he said that? 

If he was honest, he knew the answer. The request for holy water had terrified him. Had he missed signs? Had he truly been that oblivious to his demon’s pain? Had he not done enough— _been_ enough— for the demon to want to stay? 

He loved the demon. He didn’t want Crowley to die. 

But if Crowley was done, he wanted the demon to go safely, guarded, guided by his love. 

So he brought the demon holy water that he prepared himself. He brought it in his own thermos. He handed it to the demon with his own hands, eyes shining with tears, hands shaking with emotion.

“I’ll give you a lift, anywhere you want to go.”

_I can’t do this. I can’t take a last ride, I need you to stay—_

“You go too fast for me, Crowley.” 

It was a lie, and it wasn’t. 

After the apocalypse failed, Aziraphale tried one last time— tried to push away. 

He’d been doing it for years, now. Since he’d recieved an anonymous angelic letter of I-know-what-you-do-in-the-shadows, early in the Year of Our Lord 2001. He’d been pushing away to protect the demon, to remind him they were on different sides and that they’d never be accepted by either side. 

It had been easier when Crowley was an angel. 

But he hadn’t been Crowley, not truly, and Aziraphale was well in love with Crowley now. He’d fallen for the demon over and over, reaching the peak of the crescendo in 1941 with the simple gift of saved books. He’d stayed with that emotional fortissimo, heart bursting, and struggling to push back against it. 

He pushed away. He struggled. He fought. He tried to tell Crowley they were done, and it tore his heart out of his chest when the demon stumbled backwards.

Aziraphale was so tired of fighting. He was so tired of being a soldier, and he couldn’t keep up the masquerade. He knew Crowley saw it— the exhaustion in his eyes, the fear, the utter defeat. 

And then his bookshop burned down. And the world didn’t end.

And he was standing in Crowley’s flat, and they were alone, and on _their_ side.

And there was a puddle of holy water between sides of a revolving door. 

Aziraphale couldn’t move. He could feel his hands shaking, but he couldn’t will them to stop, or will his (newly-returned) body to step forward.

“Angel?” Crowley called. “Bedroom’s this way.” 

Aziraphale found himself unable to speak either. He wanted to call back to Crowley, bring him out to explain the holy water on the ground, ask him what in the He— what had happened before he’d found the demon three bottles of whiskey deep in a bar. 

“Angel?” Softer now, Crowley was in front of him, taking a shaking hand into his own. “Aziraphale, what’s wrong?” 

He opened his mouth to answer. A squeak came out. He couldn’t pull his eyes away from the puddle on the ground. 

Crowley caught on, following his line of sight. 

“Oh.” 

Aziraphale had half a mind to slap Crowley. Oh? _Oh?_ That was all he had to say? He pulled his gaze away to stare at Crowley, cheeks still streaked with grime, hair still gloriously puffed up. His eyes were bare of sunglasses and gloriously yellow. 

Crowley looked back at him, puffed out his cheeks. “Well, you see, before I went to get y— before I went to the bookshop, Hastur and Ligur came after me here, and I had to use my, uh, safety precaution.” 

“For if it all goes pear-shaped,” Aziraphale croaked, finally speaking. 

Crowley smiled, exhaustion showing in his eyes. “Yes.”

Aziraphale grabbed at him suddenly. He couldn’t control the trembling of his hands, not since 1916, but he’d regained control of the rest of his body. He shoved his nose into the place where Crowley’s neck and shoulder met; he pressed their bodies together tightly; he wrapped his arms around Crowley, one hand squeezing at his waist and the other clawing between where the demon’s wings would be. 

He felt himself melt when Crowley wrapped his arms around the angel, burying his own nose in Aziraphale’s curls. 

“Angel, it’s fine, I’m here.”

Crowley’s voice was shaking, Aziraphale realized. Crowley needed this as much as Aziraphale did. 

He couldn’t bear to see his love in pain. 

“I’m here too, my love.”

They stood there for a long moment. Eventually, Aziraphale insisted on cleaning the holy water up while Crowley fixed them some tea. They shared the bed, hands intertwined in case they were ambushed by their former colleagues. 

The world did not end. The angel and the demon did not lose each other to holy water or hellfire. 

They spent the afternoon at the Ritz and the night in Crowley’s bed— Aziraphale did not want to stay in the bookshop, not without Crowley, and Crowley could not bear to be in the shop when the rain started. They laid their hands on each other, trembling and still, and Aziraphale earned the answer to an age old question. 

Crowley’s skin was still soft and smooth, the edges of his jaw prickly with stubble. But his skin was warm now.

The end had been near for thousands of years. There had always been that threat, and yet they’d survived. And now, past the end of the world, Aziraphale had Crowley. 

Aziraphale wanted to keep him there, by his side, safe in his grasp. 

So he did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope y'all liked this! 
> 
> Breakdown of headcanons: Aziraphale knew Crowley before he Fell, but Crowley doesn't remember this (Raphaelness unclear); Crowley's Fall was a sacrifice because God needed more angels to Fall, and Crowley volunteered. Aziraphale has Essential Tremors caused by the injuries and psychological damage he experienced in the Great War (WWI) (and, like, all the Shit that Heaven puts him through :( ). Crowley is the occult guardian of Forgotten Children; Aziraphale is the ethereal guardian of LGBTQ+ peoples (thanks to auspiciousleader on tumblr for that).
> 
> I'm going to be taking a break for a while, since I need to get my butt moved to my new home. I will, however, be picking back up with the Ineffable Husbands, both with some songfics and non-songfics. 
> 
> Love you miss you mean it! Be back soon!


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